Guess what I did today? No, it did not include screaming at my kids, crying over tacos, or laughing until I wet my pants.

It’s even better than that! Though no less crazy…

I went swim suit shopping.

Yes, I know that it is October. Yes, I know that I am 31 weeks pregnant. Which is why when I try to put on my regular old swim suit, I pull it over my head and it gets stuck at the top of my boobs. Like, it doesn’t go on my body. Unless I just knot the whole thing around my wrist or something.

Now, I also have a string bikini, which I have worn all of, like, once. Because even when I am in “peak” shape (and “peak” for me means I can jog to the end of the street without being winded, and I can lift a Costco-sized package of toilet paper over my head) I still don’t feel ultra comfortable in a bikini. So last night when Jon and I were discussing where we should go this weekend for our big 10 Year Anniversary Love Fest Extravaganza (and you know it’s going to be frickin awesome, because we have been meticulously planning casually discussing it for a whole 3 days prior to departure), I mentioned that I would need to purchase a new swim suit.

“Your old one doesn’t fit?” he asked.

“Ummm, no.”

“Just wear your bikini.”

“My bikini?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you kidding?”

“What?”

“Dude, no one wants to see ALLLLL of this.” And while dragging out the word “ALLLLL”, I motioned my hands around my body as if my body were a planet and my hands were revolving moons.

And while — bless his precious heart — he tried to assure me that I would be fine in my bikini, I tried to assure him that it would spell nothing but humiliation for the both of us.

So today I strode waddled into Motherhood at the mall, after passing through the food court and accepting whatever free samples of orange chicken and philly cheese steak people would give me. I asked the girl if they happened to have any swim suits. Amazingly, she said yes, they had a few. And while I took no pictures of myself in the dressing room (I know, you are throwing things at your computer screen in disappointment) I can assure you that two of them were bombs. Like, if I didn’t before feel like the world’s most unattractive person ever, I did when I put those pieces of crap on. I looked sort of like I had wrapped my body in really hideous gift wrap, except for my cleavage and my chubby thighs, which the swim suit designer assumed are really good things to be showcased on my body. And truthfully, they are not. Ahh, but the third suit… the third was the charm. It’s blue tie-dye and cute. It makes my boobs look nice… and by “nice”, I mean “not flopping down, overlapping my huge tummy”.  And it covers my butt — my butt which has no part of the baby in it, yet it has grown proportionately along with my belly. (I can only assume this is nature’s way of aiding with balance.) Oh, and the ultimate bonus? It was $14.

No, there are currently no pictures of me in this cute suit, but Anniversary Love Fest Extravaganza pictures have not been taken and posted yet. So you may be in luck, still.  Or out of luck, depending on which side of the pregnant-chick-in-a-swim-suit fence you are on.

Thank you for boarding the Suz-Hormonal-Coaster: the world’s biggest, craziest hormonal rollercoaster ever. Pull your lap bar down tightly, securing yourself in the seat… lest Suz snatch you from it and laugh your ear off about something that is actually not really all that funny. Please keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times, as Suz could possibly rip them from your body and beat you with them, if her mood is right.

I am a trip to be around right now. Ask my family. Ask my poor husband. Ask my kids. They walk around me — and I mean, WAY around me — giving me a very wide berth. Outside the “strike zone”. Because which one of my many variations will they encounter at any particular moment?  No one knows, and that’s what makes it SO FUN!

 Friday morning I woke up to bickering kids. Bickering about something that I can’t even remember, and was of absolutely no consequence. (Although if you ask my kids, they will probably be able to tell you in immense detail the origin of the bickering, and illustrate with graphs and pictures several ways in which each of them was actually in the right and therefor they were both dealt a large helping of injustice that day.) Zoe was talking like a baby — a regression thing that probably has something subconscious to do with her unhappiness about her title of “Youngest: Precious Baby” being snatched away by the new infant. And she’s held the title of youngest for nearly 7 years, so it’s probably pretty tough for her. But Friday morning? I didn’t care. I wanted her to stop talking like that. It was irritating. And then when I told her to stop talking like that, she starting whining instead. And yes, there is a difference between baby talk and whining… and at some points she was actually doing both simultaneously. But then Jachin also started in on her. “Zoe, stop it! That is SO ANNOYING!” And then she began screaming. In baby talk. With a fruity hint of whine. So I sent her outside to clean up the yard of all of the toys that had been left out by cousins and friends. Which, as she will tell you, was completely not fair. But she did it. She picked everything up and brought it inside and dumped it all in a pile on Jachin’s bedroom floor. Which wasn’t where any of it went. And then Jachin started screaming. And then Zoe screamed some more. And then I screamed over top of them. And then they both screamed at me. And then I screamed super loud for them to both just pick up stuff and put it away together… because if they both helped, it would take two seconds. But Zoe was not touching the hockey stick because she had not played at all with the hockey stick the day before. And Jachin was not touching the Rescue Hero backpack because he had not played with that at all the day before. And there was more screaming. And I flipped out, people. A hormone of unknown origin surged through my veins and I went ballistic. I marched into Jachin’s room… and by the look on my kids’ faces, I must have had the eyes of a lunatic. “Give me your hand!” I yelled to Jachin. He held out his hand as I picked up the hockey stick, and then he looked at me like please don’t beat me with that hockey stick, mom as I shoved the hockey stick into his hand. “Give me your other hand!” I yelled. He held out his other hand and I crammed another toy into that hand. Then I turned to Zoe, who may have peed her pants in fear at this point. “Give me your hands!” I yelled, and I crammed toys into her hands. “Now put away the frickin toys! And I want 10 minutes of quiet peace!” And I marched out. And they whispered about how mommy was a crazy lady… as they put the toys away. And I stormed into the kitchen where I saw that Zoe had left the backdoor hanging wide open after her yard cleaning. And the landscaping people mowing the neighbor’s yard were looking over the fence at me as glared at them and slammed the door shut. And if they had known how say “insane pregnant woman with wild eyes like a badger” in English, I have no doubt that a 911 call would have been made.

That was Friday.

Saturday? Oh, Saturday night Jon and I went out for a lovely date. We wandered the mall for a little while and window shopped and bought some awesome stuff at the bargain bookstore. We went to the movies to see Ghost Town (which was a cute little flick). We held hands and chatted and giggled. We decided to stop for some quick dinner on the way home. Wanting to relieve my grandma from babysitting duties before it got too late, we decided on the drive-thru. “Where do you want to eat?” I asked. “You decide,” Jon said. And I hate when this is the response. Not because I don’t know what I like or I can’t make a decision, but because I feel like I have to factor in what he may or may not be feeling like eating. So I see a Fazoli’s up ahead on the left, and I think about how awesome a really good spaghetti would be. But then I think that it would be kind of selfish because Jon hates pasta. It’s sort of the only food he really dislikes. So I pass on the Fazoli’s and I drive up to the Taco Time. And I pull up to the board, and I look at at it. And I was still kinda giggling about something Jon had said that was funny. And I order a crisp chicken taco, which sounds kind of gross, but I have to make a fast decision. And then I turn to Jon and say, “What do you want?” And he says, “Ummm, nothing. I’ll just make something at home.” And at that instant — I mean, seriously, in an instant — something surges through my veins again, and by the time I pull up to the window, I am crying. I mean, honest tears streaming, looking out the window so my husband won’t know, crying. Actually, kind of bawling. Because I was now stuck with a taco when I wanted spaghetti. I. wanted. spaghetti!! And it felt like the wild, irrational crying I did when I was 5 years old, when you feel completely robbed of something but are powerless to do anything about it. And it was ridiculous, and I couldn’t stop. And my husband sat on the passenger side wondering what the hell was going on, when to me it was obvious: I did not want a stupid taco. And the guy handing me my gross taco out the little window looked at me sadly like maybe someone I knew had just died and I was stopping for a taco on my way to the funeral. He did the only consoling thing he could do… he gave me extra napkins.

That was Saturday.

Last night? Last night Zoe brought out a huge packet of stories she’s been doing at school. I read through them and giggled because she is clever and creative and the stories were really quite funny. And then one in particular was about how she fell in love with her teacher on Back to School Night, and the illustration was of Zoe (always with wild, curly hair) looking up at her pretty stick-figure teacher. And Zoe drew her own eyeballs popping out of her curly head at how awesome her new teacher was. And I started laughing. And then I couldn’t stop laughing. And I laughed until I was crying and I was making weird laughing noises. And I could. not. stop. And I half peed. And Jon and the kids both looked at me like I was insane. But, like, not in such a shocked way anymore. Because I think they are becoming comfortable with the fact that I am insane. And I’m trying to figure out if that’s a good thing or not. I’m pretty sure it’s not.

My poor, poor family. Hug them when you see them.

Thank you for riding the Suz-Hormonal-Coaster. Come ride again. If for no other reason than to sympathize with my husband and kids. Because they are stuck on this ride for the next little while. And it’s mostly not fun, just tiring and dizzying. And there are no barf bags.

Oh, hello. Come in, come in. I didn’t see you there. Mostly because my face was shoved into this plate here with pie on it.

I know, I know, again with the pumpkin pie! I can’t help it!  The bakery is my pusher, and I’m like a jaded teenage junkie roaming the streets of New York while my grief-stricken parents back in Iowa or Minnesota wonder what has happened to me. Where did they go wrong? And why? WHY??

Hold on, there’s a large crumb of flakey, buttery crust that has fallen down into my shirt and needs my full attention for a moment…

Okay. Done. Yum.

Anyway, today was my 30 week check-up. Things are lookin’ A-okay. Baby boy’s heart sounds strong. He is very kicky and “active”. My belly measures right on target. My weight gain looks perfect…

Wait, did I just say my weight looks perfect? Why yes, I did. Because that’s what the doctor told me. Even though I have been eating what would seem to be an inordinate amount of pie lately. Because — hello — 2 pie posts in, like, a  week? But I hopped on the scale at the office today — after removing my really heavy, clunky shoes, and then explaining to the nurse that my jewelry was also quite bulky today, and my thick cable knit sweater, forget about it — and I hadn’t gained hardly anything since my last visit. Like, maybe a pound. I optimistically hope this to mean that the baby is taking all necessary dietetic stores from my large-ish butt. That would be ideal for both of us.

But now that baby and I are down to the last 10 weeks, I know that I can realistically expect to gain about a pound a week (so saith most pregnancy sites) between now and the end. That’s another 10 pounds. Another 10 pounds puts me dangerously close to… well, a biggish number for me. A scary number. A number, that — when I hear it — makes me think it could take months upon months to get back in running shape afterward. Because right now, my sister and I are planning to do this together in April. And I have delusions about Jon and I doing this next fall for our anniversary trip. And all of that seems a little more difficult to train for with my current strict regimen of a lot of sleeping, alternated with brief awake periods filled with pie eating. And while I know that I am supposed to gain weight with pregnancy (and believe me, I have), it still makes me a little bummed to think about the mushy, untoned aftermath of childbirth. It bums me out to think about starting over at square one, where I can’t run more than a tenth of a mile without being on the brink of my lungs exploding and my weak little ankles snapping like autumn twigs.

But for now, I suppose I’ll just go with it. I’ll be happy to feel his little feet up under my ribs, which leaves me wondering where his growing feet can possibly go as he gets bigger. And as I write my letter to Santa asking him for a longer torso, I will continue to eat pie… though perhaps with a little more moderation in mind. And I’ll do more of my nightly “stretches”, which I will continue to call “yoga”… even though I know this to be fake… because there is no proper yoga pose that includes pressing play on a remote to select the next episode of “John Adams”.

30 weeks. And for the most part, loving it.